Dispatches from New Vegas
by Faeline
Summary: A week ago she'd woken up in Doc Mitchell's home, the taste of blood and soil in her mouth, a dull-knife pain in her head, and the world pulled out from under her like a tablecloth in a badly done New Reno magic act; she was the vase of flowers, tumbled, cracked, leaking water and littering leaves. How did she right herself?


**AN:** I've been sitting on this first chapter forever, tweaking and retweaking. I'm not certain I've got it right but I may never have it just right. I also have no idea what the update schedule will be for this thing. I have a lot of stuff drafted (including some later chapters) but I don't quite know where it's headed. But I hope you enjoy the beginning.

* * *

"_It was twenty past eleven when they walked out in the street…"  
_

* * *

"…using the buildings as cover. Maybe even have a shooter on the roof of the Saloon," Isa finishes, the words thrown out as casually as one might talk about the weather, before re-launching her vicious campaign against the blood stain that just won't come out of the saloon floor. _A lot of blood for a graze, _she thinks. _Townie should consider himself lucky Cobb's a shit shot_.

Cracking her back, Isa stands, tosses her cleaning rag toward the wash bin and only then notices the quiet that's settled over the main room of the Pioneer Saloon. Trudy's set aside her broom and is worrying a fingernail. Sunny, perched on the bar, looks thoughtful. And Isa mentally replays what she said and wonders when her life went completely pear shaped.

A week ago she'd woken up in Doc Mitchell's home, the taste of blood and soil in her mouth, a dull-knife pain in her head, and the world pulled out from under her like a tablecloth in a badly done New Reno magic act; she was the vase of flowers, tumbled, cracked, leaking water and littering leaves. How did she right herself?

Presumably, by getting back to business. And though she hasn't fully figured out what business she'll be getting back to—finding out who put the bullet in her head and _why _notwithstanding—she's pretty sure it doesn't involve planning gunfights against gangsters in a little desert town she'd never heard of before she'd been unceremoniously dumped in its cemetery.

She's a courier, not a tactician.

But the others seem to disagree.

"That sounds…" Trudy starts.

"Like it could work," Sunny finishes. "If we get everyone else on board and in their places 'fore the Gangers show up."

"Cobb said 'if they didn't have Ringo by 8 a.m.' I don't trust that _cabron_ to his word, d'you?" Isa says.

Sunny shakes her head.

"Can we spare a spotter?" Isa asks. "Someone fast?"

"I know just the guy." Sunny grins. "I'll take care of it—you see about getting the armor and dynamite. And the stims!" And she's out the door, Cheyenne on her heels.

"'Tween you and me," Trudy says, watching the door swing shut, "I think that girl's been waiting for something like this to happen. Think she needs a little adventure every now and again."

"I think I'm full up on adventure, myself," Isa say. "Amazing what getting shot in to the head will do to a girl…." She forces back a sigh and flexes her shoulders, loosening the tension that has gathered there. It's time to go do battle with Chet.

A hand on her elbow makes her pause. Trudy's fixed her with one of _those_ looks, the same one's Isa's mom used to get before some awkward conversation about boys or monthlies.

"What made you decide to get mixed up in this Ringo mess, anyway?"

"It's not just Ringo." She can still see the bruises on Trudy's arms where Cobb had gripped her.

Isa had been on her way back from the cemetery—after paying respects at her own grave—when she heard the muffled crackle-pop of gunfire coming from inside the saloon.

She'd slipped through the side door, found one of the regulars huddled in the hallway, a trail of blood leading from his leg back into the main room where Trudy was pressed up against the bar by a man in prison blues. One of his hands wrapped around Trudy's arm, the other went for a knife just as Isa put her gun to his temple and told him to get the fuck out of the saloon if he wanted to keep what brain he had.

If only she'd shot him then….

"You all won't give Ringo up. And they _will_ burn this town to the ground to get to him. And…" she says, "I owe you. Granted, some of you more than others…."

"Chet," she and Trudy say together, laughing.

"Consider this my repayment."

* * *

_**~#~#~#~**_

* * *

Sunrise spills over the mountain edges and stains the pooled shadows, turns them a bruised violet.

Isa would appreciate it more if she hadn't been up on and off all night, kept awake by Easy Pete's snoring and the constant ache deep in her belly reminding her that someone—maybe several someones—might very well die because of her plan.

She meant what she said to Trudy. She owes this town. Doc Mitchell, for not giving her up for lost and for letting her sob (more than once, she's half-ashamed to admit) into his shoulder. Sunny, for the easy camaraderie and the way she didn't say a word the first time Isa fired a rifle at the geckos and nearly jumped out of her skin at the _pop_ of the bullet, leaving Sunny and Cheyenne to fend off the little green monsters while Isa backed away with her hands over her ears and a throb in her temple. Trudy, for the way she reminds Isa of her own mother—15 years dead this year—and who keeps finding little tasks to keep her occupied and put some caps in her pocket.

And the idea of someone getting hurt…dying…because of her half-cocked plan….

At 4:30, she'd given up, pulled on her leather armor (half priced from Chett after she'd caught him trying to cheat her and threatened his manhood) and headed for the saloon.

Trudy—hair tied up in a scarf, dress rumpled—unlocked the door took one look at her and said "Coffee's on the bar, hon."

Now, it's nearing time and Isa's on her fifth cup—draining the dregs of the pot—when Sunny appears, armored up, gun and Cheyenne in tow.

"Spotter's in place," Sunny says. "So are the others. I'm about to get in mine."

"Easy escape routes?"

"We'll be fine." She winks. "Cheyenne, come."

Isa watches her disappear around the corner of the saloon. A few moments later, Ringo takes her place. His hair's askew and the shadows under his eyes have taken on a purple cast.

"These are from Pete," Isa says, handing over several sticks of dynamite.

"I owe—"

She holds up a hand, shakes her head. "We both survive? Then you can tell me you owe me."

"Got it." Ringo looks like he's about to say something else but he's interrupted by the yammer of a mechanical cowboy.

"Them Gangers is headin' this way. Better look sharp," Victor says and he's gone before Isa can blink, rolling on past the saloon.

_So that's Sunny's spotter_, she thinks. At least he was serving some purpose other than giving her the jiggies. She had to agree with Doc, there was …something there. Something underneath all the circuits and wires.

Shaking her head, she sends Ringo running and calls Trudy to attention before taking her place behind the big rocks in front of the windmill, staying low and peering around the edge.

There's more than a handful of Gangers coming up the road. But they're not smart. They swarm together like mantises.

She spies Ringo slipping around the corner of Pete's house, pistol aimed.

The gunshot rings out. One of the Ganger's legs crumples and as they turn toward Ringo, who's disappeared behind the house again, Isa throws a clump of dynamite she's fixed together.

That explosion sends everything into chaos.

It could be minutes or hours later that the last shot is fired and the world goes quiet.

Keeping low, Isa edges out from behind her rock and takes stock of the bodies on the ground. Eight in all.

Ringo and the rest of the townsfolk are making their way out of hiding and she follows suit, cracking her back to ease the tension, shaking her head as if that'll knock the annoying ring out of her ears.

She's nearing the saloon when she spies the gleam of light, looks over to find one of the Gangers raising up on his side. His left arm is mangled beyond recognition, but the other—bloody and shaking—is pointing a pistol at her.

Two shots ring out.

Heat sears her shoulder as blood blooms on the Ganger's forehead and he collapses in the dirt.

On the roof of the saloon, Sunny rises to her knees, still pointing the gun at the dead man. And Isa, turning, catches her eye before the world spins and everything goes black.

* * *

_**~#~#~#~  
**_

* * *

"You seem to be making a habit of this."

This is the second time in a week that she's woken up to see Doc's face hovering over her.

And he's not getting any better looking.

"How are you feeling?"

Groaning, Isa sits up and sways. "When the room stops spinning, I'll let you know." She clicks her tongue, waves off his assistance and manages to swing her legs over the side of the bed. She doesn't fall. That's a plus. "Least I didn't get shot in the head this time."

Doc's eyebrows fly toward his nonexistent hair-line. "Barely got shot at all, matter of fact. Took a graze to your arm that just needed a stitch and a patch. Dehydration's what sent you tumbling, girl." He frowns and hands her a dirt-smudged glass of water. "Thought I told you to watch that before you ran out of here."

"Hard to guzzle water when you're plotting an ambush and then dodging gunfire, Doc." She sips and ignores the exasperated look on Doc's face. "Look…thanks. For getting me on my feet. Again. And…just. Thank you."

Despite her gratitude, it takes a number of placating statements, several reflex tests, and a series of circuits around the room before Doc's convinced she's fit to walk out his front door and that happens _only_ after he watches her slow-sip down the rest of her water and makes her promise to wait _at least_ another 24 hours before she decides to do anything crazy, like travel the I15.

Which is fine. Really. She might hole up for a few more days. The very idea of trying to get to Primm right now is exhausting. And besides, she still needs to supply up. Idly, she wonders if the Powder Gangers had anything useful on them when they went _kaboom_.

Outside, the sun dips toward the horizon and the air is full of dust and the faintest smell of gunpowder. In front of the saloon, Sunny is supervising the clean up; she's got a couple of townsfolk loading the Ganger's bodies—well, what's _left_ of them—into a rough-hewn wooden wagon, and another making neat piles out of the ordnance.

Isa groans as she spots Chet hovering over Sunny's shoulder. Even from this distance, she can see the look on his face, like a kid whose birthday's come early, as he looks over the growing pile of goods.

She wonders if she'll be able to talk him out of any of it as payment for services rendered, thinks about how the little _pendejo_ tried to charge her full price for ripped leathers, and ghosts her fingers over the gun on her hip.

She may very well have to shoot him.

* * *

tbc...


End file.
